Odd One Out
by C. S. Hazel
Summary: The odds are not in Katniss's favor when her sister is chosen again for the 75th Hunger Games. To make matters worse, an anonymous killer is after her blood. Not only that, but will another girl steal away Peeta's heart?


Again.

It's the reaping. Effie Trinket bops around on the stage, squealing "Ladies first!" into the microphone, and shuffling her hand around in the female reaping ball, smiling at the audience like _isn't-this-fun? _

But I'm not in the Sixteen Females pen like I was last year. I'm on the stage, behind Effie, staring at the girls in the sea of District 12 citizens and wondering which one I'll have to mentor. Which one I'll have to send in to mostly likely die.

Peeta Mellark sits next to me, squeezing my hand. Of course, he's only doing it for the cameras. On a normal day, most days, he would sit stiffly, avoiding my eyes.

_Not Prim, _I scream in my mind. This time, I can't take her place as tribute. This time, she's on her own.

But what are the odds that a girl who was chosen last year as tribute will be chosen again? Especially since she has only two slips of paper in the reaping balls, as her family needs no tesserae.

The odds, apparently, are great, since it happens.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

The world moves slowly in front of my eyes. All I hear is a buzzing in my ears, like the tracker jackers last year. But the muttations created hallucinations. This is real.

Effie's outrageous orange hair, fluffed up. My mother's widening eyes, her thin lips stretching into an empty shriek. Prim walking up to the stage, her face white.

And me. I'm out of my seat. Someone's screaming. I realize it's me. I rush towards her. My hands reach for my sister.

It's a flash of grey, and then the Peacekeepers are pushing me back, pointing their weapons in my face. Peeta grabs my hand, saying something that I can't hear, that I won't hear. I slap him, wrenching my hand out of his. I kick at the Peacekeepers' knees, trying to get up.

I may be able to fight off Peeta, but the Peacekeepers are plenty and much stronger than a seventeen-year-old girl. They push me down, whacking me on the shoulders and arms with their weapons.

"Shut up or I kill the girl," something—someone—growls in my ear, and the scent of sickly sweet roses wafts up around me. I freeze, because it's President Snow. There's no question as to who "the girl" is. Not me. It's Prim.

"Snow!" I scream hysterically, fighting off whoever was standing next to my left ear, for that must be Snow. "I'm going to—" The person I'm hitting punches me back feebly, and I realize it's Haymitch. "Haymitch! Where's Snow?"

"What, sweetheart?" he snaps, scowling at me.

Peeta grabs my hand again. I can hear him now, unfortunately. "Katniss. Katniss. It's okay." But it's not, it'll never be, because Prim's been chosen for tribute. I have to prepare my own sister for slaughter.

"_How can you lie like that to_—" My scream is cut off. Someone stuffs something in my mouth. It tastes bitter—I realize it's the herb that my mother uses sometimes to calm patients down.

"Sorry, sorry, there's been a bit of a disturbance," Effie chirps, flashing her teeth at the crowd. Prim stands next to her, looking in my direction worriedly, although of course she can't see me through the mass of Peacekeepers. "All right, let's see which lucky boy gets to attend the Hunger Games this time!" She claps, but no one claps along with her.

The herb does make my body calm down, move in slow motion like I'm swimming through glass, but my mind is still frantic. There must be some way to save her.

Effie rubs the slip of paper with the male tribute's name on it between her sharp fingernails and beams at the crowd. "Rory Hawthorne!"

This is not happening.

I find Gale's face out in the crowd. It's pale white. He can't volunteer for Rory, because he's nineteen now. We stare at each other in horror. My sister. His brother.

Something clicks in my mind.

What are the odds? What are the odds that the two tributes chosen will be the two children closest to me? What are the odds, when in total they have three names in the reaping balls, out of thousands? What are the odds that a girl who was chosen for tribute last year will be chosen again?

The odds, obviously, are not in my favor. But of course, they were set against me the minute I volunteered for Prim.

They were rigged for this reaping.

There's a lot of muttering. Of course, after I stood in for Prim last year, everyone knows she's my sister. And thanks to the Capitol's television programs, everyone knows that Rory is my best friend's brother.

I can't scream. The calming herb prevents me from doing so. I can't jump up. I can't run off. I must sit here, in between Peeta and Haymitch, with a ridiculous grin on my face to match Effie's, and the rest of the Capitol civilians who must be watching District 12's reaping right now.

* * *

The good-byes take longer than I remember.

Us mentors can't watch in person, but on a screen. Of course, there's Gale, hugging Rory. And the rest of their family, sobbing and shaking their heads. My mother hugs Prim. Madge comes in too—she tells Prim that she has a strong mentor and sister, one who can help her win. And Prim and Rory's friends from school, of course.

"Don't worry," Peeta murmured to me. "Haymitch and I have been talking, and we have a plan."

"What?" I snap acidly. "What's your great pla—"

He nods towards the security cameras, meaning that we can't talk right now. We're on the train, which is still parked in the station.

Effie Trinket walks into the dining room. "Oh, isn't it so exciting?" she trills, fanning her face with her hands. "Imagine what the audience's reaction is! Katniss, your sister has been chosen for the Hunger Games _again_! Isn't that so lucky or what?"

We all stare at her. I resist the urge to slap Effie. "Here, Effie, have a chocolate muffin," Peeta says, changing the subject. He holds up a treat. She flashes a smile at him—Peeta was always her favorite, not me—and takes it from him, nibbling on the side.

"Ooh, the tributes are boarding the train now!" Effie squeals, daintily putting her muffin onto a silk napkin and standing up, her six-inch heels click-clacking as she walks away to greet them.

"What am I supposed to say to her?" I ask the painting hanging on the wall.

Peeta shifts in his seat. "Just train her as best as you can. Give her encouragement. Tell her she has sponsors, because she will, being your sister."

It's up to me to save Prim again.


End file.
